


a little sweetness in my life

by singsongsung, sonlali



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: F/F, Pumpkin Spice, Season 2 AU, but Alexis Rose will manifest autumn through willpower alone, do seasons exist in Schitt's Creek? unclear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonlali/pseuds/sonlali
Summary: Alexis misses being able to stop into a Starbucks and pick up a pumpkin spice latte on a crisp autumn day. Twyla wants to make that happen for her.
Relationships: Alexis Rose/Twyla Sands
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31
Collections: Schitt's Creek Trick Or Treat





	1. Twyla

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCTrickOrTreat](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCTrickOrTreat) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Pumpkin spice. 
> 
> That is the whole prompt.

“I think it’s clean, darlin’.” George’s low, drawling voice shakes Twyla from her thoughts. She looks down at the mug in her hands and wonders how long she’s been mindlessly scrubbing at it while lost in a daydream.

“Oh, oh, right. You’re probably right, George, thanks.” Twyla sets the mug aside and wipes her hands absently on her apron. 

George holds out a tea towel. “You gotta dry your hands off properly or your skin’ll crack. ‘Specially once it starts gettin' colder outside.”

Twyla smiles gratefully. “What would I do without you, George?”

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully, squinting at Twyla curiously. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just… just daydreaming.” Twyla smiles again, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Why don’t you head home? I can finish closing.”

“You sure?” George narrows his eyes again, but Twyla just swats playfully at him with the towel.

“Yes, I’m sure! Go, go! Everything’s about done anyway. I just need to wipe off the countertop and then I’m out of here. Promise. Go enjoy the rest of your night.”

George shrugs and waves a hand. “Alright, don’t stay too late, Twyla! See ya in the morning.”

Twyla waves goodbye and heaves a sigh. Truthfully, she’s not even entirely sure what was so thoroughly occupying her thoughts. She grabs a rag to wipe down the countertops and her eyes slide to the mug again. 

As she wipes the rag along the sticky surface, her thoughts drift back to her conversation with Alexis this afternoon. Alexis was complaining about not being able to find a PSL — which Twyla learned today is a _pumpkin spice latte_ and not a _pork stuffed lasagna_ as they said among her family — anywhere in Elm County.

Alexis’ whole face had lit up when she talked about enjoying a warm pumpkin spice latte on a crisp autumn day. Twyla likes when Alexis smiles like that, the way it makes her eyes sparkle and her face glow. Twyla thinks about the way Alexis’ long, slender fingers wrapped around her fork as she spoke, the hint of her tongue peeking out of her mouth to lick at her parfait and thoroughly distract Twyla. There was much more twirling of the fork and chewing absently on the tines than any actual eating, and Twyla could barely tear her eyes away from the sight, her eyes drawn to Alexis’ pretty pink lips as she told Twyla about one time when she was in Paris attending a fashion show (“Heidi invited me to come with her, but then she got totally jealous when I told her about how Seal sang _Kiss From a Rose_ to me at George Clooney’s yacht party. She was, like, freaking out and threw one of her stilettos at me, and it was this really ugly, last-season Jimmy Choo, and _ew!_ So I left because, honestly, it was kind of boring there anyway. Then after I left, I stopped by a Starbucks and got the most amazing PSL.”) 

Twyla always feels slightly mesmerized listening to Alexis talk. Her whole body seems to move with her words, her hands sweeping gracefully through the air, her hair swinging over her shoulders. She leans forward across the counter and taps at Twyla’s hands to make a point and leans back with a shimmy. Twyla gets so distracted watching Alexis that sometimes she forgets there’s anyone else in the room. Alexis’ afternoon visits are always the highlight of her day, and she wishes she could return the favor and brighten up Alexis’ day.

Twyla decides right then that she is going to make Alexis a pumpkin spice latte. 

**

She stops by Brebner’s on her way home from the café, weaving between aisles with a shopping cart and scanning through recipes for pumpkin spice lattes on her phone. The recipes aren’t very clear on the precise ingredients, and Twyla lingers for several minutes staring at a shelf of spices trying to determine which spice is _pumpkin spice_. In the end, she grabs one of everything figuring she can do a taste test at home. 

She also buys milk, coffee beans, whipped cream, and the biggest pumpkin she can find because she’ll want to make a lot of lattes for Alexis. Her shopping bags are heavy, but her heart feels light and joyous as she makes her way home. She decides that she will arrive at the café tomorrow extra early so she has plenty of time to practice making the latte. Then when Alexis arrives for her afternoon coffee break, Twyla will be prepared to whip it up in no time flat. She falls asleep with a smile on her face. 

Twyla’s eyes spring open at five a.m. sharp, feeling as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. She springs from her bed and dresses quickly, throwing her hair up in a ponytail and gathering all her ingredients to bring to the café. She hums happily as she carries her bags to her car, a spring in her step and a wide smile on her face. Well, perhaps not a spring, but more of an energetic shuffle — the pumpkin _is_ quite heavy after all. 

She carefully arranges everything she thinks she will need all along the kitchen counters at the café, biting her lip as she examines her spices. Maybe she should have gotten that second jar of cumin after all. She pulls out her phone to review the recipe again, but to her frustration, she still cannot find clear instructions on _which_ spices make up the pumpkin spice.

Twyla scrolls through several paragraphs of text in search of the ingredients list but comes up short. Frustrated, she scrolls back to the top of the page and decides to settle in and read everything. Perhaps the background details about the blog’s author — Marianne from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, full-time mommy, part-time customer service associate, and weekend baker — are essential to understanding how to transform the enormous pumpkin on Twyla’s countertop into something she could pour into the average-sized coffee mug she has privately designated as Alexis’.

Marianne talks about mixing the pumpkin spice in the pumpkin puree along with milk, sugar, and vanilla, and Twyla casts a wary glance at the very solid pumpkin and the four rows of jars with spices she carefully lined up along the kitchen island. She must be missing something. Twyla reads more carefully and learns about Nicky’s broken arm (Marianne’s seven-year-old, who has boundless energy and loves to climb trees) and his love for pumpkin cupcakes. There’s a link here that directs Twyla to another of Marianne’s blog posts, and she finds herself compelled to read more. 

As it turns out, Nicky loves the pumpkin cupcakes, but Ella (his four-year-old sister) is currently in a phase where she will eat nothing but chicken nuggets. A link directs Twyla to Marianne’s homemade chicken nuggets, which she shapes into delightful cat shapes for her children. Twenty minutes later, Twyla is clicking through to another post, eager to learn more about how Marianne is coping with her husband Max’s recent deployment. She scrolls to the bottom of the post to leave Marianne a comment. Twyla’s cousin Mel who lives in Nevada is married to a pilot in the Air Force, and she knows how challenging it is for him when Mel goes on tour for months at a time with her mime troupe. 

After leaving a long, heartfelt comment wishing Marianne and her children well and sharing advice on how Mel’s husband handles her long absences, Twyla notices that the post is from 2012.

“Oh, flapjack!” Twyla exclaims, frowning at her phone. She clicks through Marianne’s blog — _Sugar and Spice — Not Always Nice ;-)_ — to find her most recent post and discovers it was in November 2013. “Oh, I hope she’s okay,” Twyla says to the empty room, worrying at her lower lip. 

Twyla catches sight of the time and gasps when she realizes how much time she spent reading blog posts. She decides to just jump in and start working on the pumpkin spice latte. After all, she _does_ spend every day making coffees for people, so surely she can figure this out.

She grabs her largest carving knife and starts by cutting a circle around the stem of the pumpkin, approaching the task like she would carve a jack-o-lantern. She thinks of how her grandma’s ex-husband’s new girlfriend once roasted pumpkin seeds after carving a pumpkin and wonders if she should try that too. Maybe they could serve as a garnish for the latte. Twyla nods decisively and starts to sing as she works. She feels much better allowing herself to be free in the kitchen, rather than worrying over a recipe.

Twyla carefully scoops out all the seeds and pulp from the pumpkin’s inside — pumpkin barf, as her cousins called it — and dumps it all in a large bowl. She diligently picks out all of the seeds, leaving stringy bits of pulp in the bowl. She examines the hollowed out pumpkin. _Which part is supposed to become the puree?_ She tackles the inside of the pumpkin with knives and forks and even an ice cream scoop to scrape out as much of the flesh as possible. 

She’s sweaty and her hands are covered in pumpkin barf when George’s voice calls out from behind her. 

“Little early to be carving pumpkins, darlin’. If you set that outside this early in the month, it’ll be rotten by Halloween.”

“Oh, George, you startled me!” Twyla brings a hand to her chest and immediately regrets it when a glob of pumpkin innards sticks to her top. She rushes to wash her hands and dab at her shirt with a towel. “What are you doing here so early?”

“It’s nearly time to open.” George’s brow furrows.

“Well, sheep! I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m nowhere near done!”

George sidles closer, wrinkling his nose at the mess. 

“I want to make Alexis a pumpkin spice latte today because she said she missed them, but I’ve never made one before so I wanted to practice.” Twyla feels her face flushing with a rush of embarrassment. 

George raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak. 

“I guess it’s a bit silly to practice so early in the day when she won’t be in until afternoon. I’ll just have to make it again then, right?” Twyla wishes George would say something if only to stop her nervous rambling, but he just nods solemnly. “I ju-just didn’t want it to be bad, so I thought— Well, anyway, I’ll clean up your kitchen, George. I’ll just finish up on my lunch break instead, which if I time it right will be right around when Alexis stops by anyway.” She smiles wanly and shrugs. “Guess I should have thought of that earlier, huh?”

George hums and claps a hand on Twyla’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Twyla. Your Alexis is going to love it.”

Twyla is sure that heat is radiating from her body with the intensity of her mortification, but George just smiles and walks over to the fryer to heat it up. 

**

George’s nibling Sol usually covers Twyla’s lunch break, and they generously agree to stick around an extra thirty minutes while Twyla continues to struggle in the kitchen. She has finally managed to puree the pumpkin innards, mixing in milk and vanilla extract in an attempt to make it look less… well, less like pumpkin barf. She wrinkles her nose at the smell and begins enthusiastically shaking in spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, lots of chilli powder because it’s supposed to be spicy, right?

George peers over from behind the grill, his face neutral save a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s right?”

Twyla pushes a strand of hair that has fallen loose from her ponytail away from her sweaty face and huffs out a breath. She knows George means well, but she’s beginning to feel very frustrated after working on this drink for so long and doesn’t really appreciate the interruption or his veiled skepticism. She bites back the urge to snap at him and instead smiles.

“All good here, George. I got this, thanks!” She calls back to him. George shrugs and turns his attention back to the grill. 

She whisks more milk into her pumpkin spice puree until it’s nice and frothy, her face flushed from exertion. She adds the foamy mixture to the to-go cup of hot coffee and bites her lip nervously. This doesn’t _quite_ look like the pictures on Marianne’s blog, but Marianne also suggested topping the latte with whipped cream. Twyla decides that Marianne’s must look similar to hers underneath all that whipped cream, so she cheerfully adds a large dollop to the top of the cup before sprinkling it with a bit of turmeric for an extra zest. 

“Oh, um, _heeey_ , you!” Twyla nearly upends the entire cup when she hears Alexis’ voice ring out from somewhere behind her. Twyla spins around and peeks through the window to see Alexis at the counter, clearly surprised to find anyone other than Twyla standing there. 

“Can I get you something?” Sol asks, politely ignoring the way Alexis’ head is swiveling, her neck craning to look around the café. 

“Um, what? No, yes, is, um, where is— Is Twyla here?” She tugs at a lock of hair, and Twyla suppresses a smile, her heart thudding in her chest. 

Twyla rushes to add a garnish of roasted pumpkin seeds to the top of the latte and hurries to carry the cup out to Alexis, careful not to spill the precarious pile of whipped cream on top. 

“Hi, Alexis!” Twyla cringes when her voice comes out a bit too loud, a bit too excited, but Alexis’ face lights up.

“I, um, hi,” Twyla stammers. “I made you this! It’s a PLS! I mean, no, that’s not right. A PSL — it’s a spice pumpkin latte. For you. Because you were saying, um, yesterday? You were saying how you wanted one.” Twyla resists the temptation to leave the cup on the counter and run back into the kitchen. Her face is burning with embarrassment and her hands are trembling, a hot splash of coffee trickling over the edge onto her wrist. 

But then Alexis’ hands wrap around hers on the cup, and Alexis is smiling at her, and her eyes are so blue, but also green, and so pretty, and all the struggle and all the embarrassment are completely worth it for this moment. Twyla feels her own face relax into a wide grin, the tension in her shoulders dissipating instantly. 

“Twyla!” Alexis exclaims. “This is _sooo_ sweet of you! Mm, I can’t wait to get a taste of this!”

She takes the cup from Twyla’s hands and brings it to her lips, and Twyla holds her breath as she watches her take a sip. Alexis’ eyes widen and she sputters slightly. 

“It’s just, um, a bit hot.” Alexis coughs. “But still _so_ yummy!”

“Really?!” Twyla clasps her hands together, her heart swelling hopefully. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No! No, it is, um, a bit _different_ from the PSLs that I’m used to, but also such a totally special flavor, like, so yum! Thank you, Twy.” Alexis touches a finger to Twyla’s nose and smiles sweetly, leaning across the counter slightly.

Twyla feels herself leaning closer as well, as if being drawn into Alexis’ orbit. She searches her brain for something else to say, something to keep Alexis here for a little longer, but her thoughts have turned into molasses, slow and sticky with the image of Alexis’ warm smile. 

“Pumpkin!” She blurts. Alexis’ eyebrows furrow, and Twyla chokes out a nervous laugh. “I still have what’s left of the pumpkin. I was going to carve it. Into a jack-o-lantern, I mean. Maybe you could join me tonight? We could, you know, hang out and carve the pumpkin. Have a drink maybe?”

Alexis smiles again and nods energetically, her jewelry making a gentle tinkling sound that steadies the anxious rhythm of Twyla’s heart. 

“Um, yes, love that, Twy! That sounds like so much fun!” Alexis shimmies a little, and Twyla’s cheeks are starting to ache from the force of her smile. “But, um, you’ll be doing the actual carving, though, right? It’s just that I painted my nails yesterday, and pumpkins are kind of—” Her nose crinkles adorably. “I think my creative eye would be better suited with directing, rather than cutting into gooey pumpkin guts, you know?”

Twyla laughs. “Of course, Alexis.”

“And uh, when you said we would have a drink, do you mean—” Her eyes dart down to the cup of coffee and away again as she bites at her lower lip. “Or like a nice yummy glass of wine?”

“Oh, I could make you another PSL if you wanted—” Alexis’ eyes widen and Twyla continues. “But I was thinking we could open a bottle of wine.” Alexis’ head bobbles in another nod. 

“Yes, Twy. That sounds amazing. I can’t wait.”

Twyla smiles again, or maybe still. Maybe she’s been smiling since Alexis walked into the café this afternoon. Maybe she’s been smiling since Alexis walked into her life.

“I can’t wait either.”


	2. Alexis

Summer seems endless in Schitt’s Creek, the sun high in the sky, the air dry, the temperature refusing to drop below twenty-two degrees — but seasons are not beholden to the weird weather of small rural towns. According to Alexis’ Instagram feed and the Twitter accounts of all her favourite brands, it’s time for cozy plaid blanket scarves, burgundy dresses and thigh-high boots, freshly-picked apples and baby-sized pumpkins placed artistically on gleaming marble countertops.

In other words: it’s autumn.

It’s autumn, and even if there are no crisp breezes greeting Alexis during her morning runs, she wants to enjoy all the classic elements of the season. She wants to drink apple cider spiked with rum, and take pictures of her feet in her favourite brown leather booties amidst fallen, colourful leaves, and watch the _Scream_ movies with David like they used to when they were teenagers, and decide on a sexy-but-creative Halloween costume, like the time she wore a gorgeous Prada gown and devil horns and a killer red lip.

And, she thinks, even as she’s pulling on her favourite distressed shorts, an off-the-shoulder blouse, and dusting shimmery highlighter over her shoulders, she wants a pumpkin spice latte.

She doesn’t care how unoriginal that makes her, how _basic_. Plenty of things about Alexis are distinct, exceptional, and unparalleled. That doesn’t mean she lacks taste buds, or that a PSL isn’t an excellent treat after a morning Ashtanga class, the perfect drink to sip while contemplating purchases at Bergdorf Goodman, or a great beverage to enjoy during takeoff on a flight across the Atlantic. All those facets of her previous life might be gone forever, but if she can snag the credit card of David’s that still magically works, she’s pretty sure she can still afford her favourite fall drink.

She throws on her Valentino rockstud slingbacks, settles a floppy hat on her head at a charming angle, and makes her way to the café with a bit of a skip in her step. She’s sweating a little by the time she gets there, which is annoying, because summer should be _over_ by now, and feeling sticky doesn’t exactly make her want a hot beverage, but - whatever. Alexis Rose can always rise above.

It’s a touch cooler in the café, which is a relief. Alexis sweeps her hat off her head and scrunches a hand into her hair near the roots, refreshing its volume — a series of gestures that once would have garnered dropped jaws and enraptured eyes, but the citizens of Schitt’s Creek seem to be adjusting to her. She huffs a little sigh and strolls over to the counter.

“Heeeey, Twy!” she says as she takes a seat on a stool.

“Hey, Alexis,” Twyla says, wiping her hands on her apron as she turns around. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and Alexis finds herself wondering what Twyla’s cold-weather wardrobe is like. She probably likes cute little cardigans. Maybe even turtlenecks. “What can I get you?”

“I was wondering,” Alexis says. She touches a menu sitting nearby and immediately regrets it when its plastic cover feels sticky under her fingers. She looks around for a napkin dispenser, doesn’t see one nearby, and settles for holding her hand gingerly in her lap. “Does the menu here change, like, seasonally?”

“Oh, nope,” Twyla says. She looks proud, chin lifting up and smile bright, when she says, like a line she’s rehearsed, “Everything we make is available every day of the year!”

“Mm!” Alexis murmurs in response, lips pressed together. “Mm _hm_. Mmhm, mmhm.”

Twyla looks concerned, her eyebrows tilting up. “Is there something you want that’s not on the menu?”

“Well, the thing is, Twy,” Alexis says, “is that it’s hot, still, but it’s _basically_ fall, you know? And I would, like, pretty much kill for a PSL.”

Twyla’s eyebrows draw inward, knitting together, and she mouths _PSL_ to herself as if making sure she heard Alexis correctly. “At…breakfast time?” she asks uncertainly. “Because I think I could go buy some pork, but — ”

“Ew!” Alexis cries, leaning back. “Ew, what? No. Why would I need pork with my pumpkin spice latte?”

With one quick blink, the crease between Twyla’s eyebrows vanishes and her smile reappears. “Oh!” she says. “Oh. A pumpkin spice — ” She shakes her head. “Sorry, Alexis,” she says, one corner of her smile curling apologetically. “We don’t do those fancy coffees. Just the stuff in the pot, George always says!”

“Right,” Alexis says quietly. She props her elbow on the counter and rests her chin morosely in her palm. She shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“Do you want a parfait?” Twyla offers. Her voice is a little softer, gentler, like she understands the depth of Alexis’ disappointment. “I can put extra honey in.”

“Yeah,” Alexis sighs. She tries to smile her thanks at Twyla. “Okay.”

“I’ll be _right_ back,” Twyla assures her, turning to go into the kitchen, but Alexis stops her by calling, “Wait!”

When Twyla’s facing her again, she asks hopefully, “Is there a Starbucks around here anywhere? Like, in Elm City or whatever?”

“Elmdale,” Twyla supplies. “No. There’s one in Arborville, but that’s almost three hours away. And, actually - I think it might’ve closed. _Something_ in Arborville definitely closed last month. I can’t remember if it was the Starbucks or the taxidermist’s place.”

“Uh-huh,” Alexis says. She sighs again, more heavily, as she watches Twyla go, ponytail bouncing. Is it really so much to ask to enjoy the fall flavours of nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves in a latte topped with whipped cream?

“Hey, hon,” Jocelyn’s voice says right by her ear. Alexis starts and ends up pressing her menu-sticky fingers to her throat. “Oh, didn’t mean to scare you!” Jocelyn adds jovially. “It’s just, I heard the conversation you were having with Twyla just now, and I wanted to let you know there’s a Tim Horton’s over in Elm Ridge!”

With a flash of a sunny smile, Jocelyn makes her way to the door. In her seat, Alexis suppresses a shudder.

A _Tim Horton’s_? Ew.

**

It’s still searingly hot on the day Alexis nails her interview for the receptionist position at Ted’s clinic, the sun beating down so fiercely that, when dressing for her interview, she pointedly ignored the date on the calendar and chose a white dress printed with butterflies, both for its light, flowing fabric and for the fact that it’s the only piece of clothing she owns that has any sort of _creature_ on it.

She leaves the veterinary clinic feeling confident in herself and the fact that she’s now officially a working woman - Ted even helped her fill out some complicated, indecipherable form that apparently needs to be sent to the government. It’s the perfect moment to treat herself. If she were somewhere else, somewhere with more than one establishment that serves caffeinated beverages, she’d march into the nearest Starbucks, order a venti PSL, and sip it while browsing pieces online for her new professional wardrobe, bookmarking them for purchase when she gets her first paycheque.

But there are no multinational coffee shop chains for her to visit, so Alexis goes to the General Store instead. It doesn’t have air conditioning, but it does have two big box fans that are trying their best, and it gets her out of the sun.

None of the drinks in the refrigerated section inspire her, especially since, while all of the _kinds_ of soda are recognizable, none of the _brands_ are. Her freshly-employed high is starting to fade when she notices the store’s display of greeting cards and has an excellent, generous idea.

Her dad’s seemed so stressed out lately - poor thing - and what better way to show her support than with a Hallmark card alongside the news that she’s going to be able to pay for her own smoothies at the café.

The card display is small, but impressively packed with cards for virtually every imaginable occasion. None of them, Alexis realizes, are actually made by Hallmark, but that also means they all cost $1.50, which happens to be about the extent of her budget.

The birthday cards are in the center, so Alexis browses those first. There’s one that says _Congratulations on being born_ on the front and _...a really, really long time ago_ on the inside. She makes a mental note to come back and buy it for David’s next birthday, since he’ll be turning, like, _fifty_.

There are quite a few cards for “dearest sons” and “darling daughters.” One of the cards labelled _birthday - daughter_ has butterflies on the front of it; given her outfit for the day, Alexis feels compelled to pluck it up and read it.

 _Happy birthday, daughter,_ the scripted font on the front says. _You are certainly the most beautiful gift we have ever received. You are our pride, our love, our everything!_

Alexis slides the card back into the display without reading the message inside. Those aren’t things her parents have ever said to her, not even via greeting card words written by someone else, and she wouldn’t want them to - _ew_ \- but it would be nice if, just once, someone said they were proud of her. She just got a _job_ , all by herself, based on her _skills_. She’s done very impressive things that her parents don’t know of and have never bothered to ask about.

She gives her head a small shake to clear it and moves on to other categories of cards. There’s an overwhelming array: wedding cards, Halloween cards, graduation cards, bon voyage cards, World Egg Day cards, National Cashew Day cards. None of those are quite right for her dad. Instead, she focuses on a floral-heavy section that contains get well, sympathy, and thank you cards. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders determinedly as she lets her gaze move over the options. Abruptly, she wishes she’d planned this card-buying trip in advance and asked Twyla to come along with her. Alexis is being _super_ generous right now, but she’s maybe not always been quite so generous in the past. Twyla’s probably been kind and thoughtful and generous since she was, like, four years old, which is the same age Alexis was when she memorized her father’s credit card number and ordered every single available American Girl doll on an unsupervised computer. Alexis could use advice from someone like that right now, to cultivate her own new and very cute sense of benevolence, guide it in the right direction.

Alexis frowns, glancing back toward the birthday card she’d thought was perfect for David. Twyla would probably pick a different card. But - whatever. She needs to get back on task.

Focused on the thank-you section, she notices one very pretty card, the words _Thank You_ written simply on the front over a burst of watercolour wildflowers. It’s one of the most stylish things she’s seen since her family arrived in Schitt’s Creek, but it’s not the right pick for her father.

Alexis seriously contemplates a get well soon card that reads _I Hope You Feel Brighter Soon_ , which is a message both her dad and his stressed-out undereyes could very badly use. But there’s also a sympathy card with roses on it, which is _perfect_ , aesthetically speaking. It says _My deepest condolences…_ on the front, which works, because Alexis really _does_ feel sorry for her dad and his poverty.

The inside says, _I know things have been tough lately, but I’m here for you and hope this helps._ She grins, snatching up the coral-coloured envelope that goes with it and shimmying her shoulders slightly in triumph. It’s the perfect, generous sentiment. As she swans over to the cash register, she thinks she might even buy her dad a sympathy smoothie, or one of those gross tuna melts he likes.

**

After she leaves the store, Alexis’ feet end up carrying her across the street to the café, and she makes no effort to course-correct. Her afternoon visits to the café have become something of a routine, and while Alexis doesn’t generally _love_ a rigid schedule, she enjoys this particular habit of an hour spent sipping tea and chatting with Twyla.

She’s busy sliding the card for her dad into her bag as she walks into the café, so she doesn’t realize until she’s at the counter that Twyla’s not behind it. There’s a teenager there, instead, looking at her expectantly. When she does nothing more than blink, they say, “Hi.”

“Oh, um, _heeey_ , you!” Alexis responds, trying to sound nice and enthused about seeing this person whose name she may have once learned but definitely does not remember.

“Can I get you something?”

Alexis glances around the café, wondering where Twyla might be. “Um, what?” she asks absently. Is it possible that Twyla has the day off and just, like, totally neglected to tell her? She tries to focus on the teenager, who is still staring at her. “No,” she says. “Yes. Is, um - where is - ” She lifts a hand, wrapping a lock of hair that’s escaped her updo around her finger. “Is Twyla here?”

“I think she’s - ”

“Hi, Alexis!” Twyla’s bright voice says, suddenly, and Alexis feels herself relax, smiling as she turns toward it. She’s about to say hi back, but Twyla keeps talking, her words coming out in a bit of a rush: “I, um, hi - I made you this! It’s a PLS! I mean, no, that’s not right. A PSL — it’s a spice pumpkin latte. For you. Because you were saying, um, yesterday? You were saying how you wanted one.”

Alexis’ mouth drops open in surprise. No matter how generous she’s been today, she’s still got nothing on Twyla. She reaches toward the cup, whipped cream piled high on top, and gently rests her hands against both its sides and Twyla’s fingers to ease the precarious transfer. Twyla’s skin is softer than she was expecting it to be, considering how busy her hands are all day, soft enough that it’s momentarily distracting.

Across the counter, Twyla smiles at her, this big, gorgeous grin that could probably serve as a source of electricity if the town ever lost power. Alexis feels herself melt, somehow, as she breathes in the spicy scent of the drink held between them.

“ _Twyla_!” she gushes. “This is _sooo_ sweet of you!” She inhales again, ready to comment on how good the drink smells. She doesn’t get quite the notes she was expecting, but Twyla probably has access to really legit, locally-sourced, farm-fresh, organic-type ingredients. “Mm! I can’t wait to get a taste of this!”

She brings the cup to her mouth and takes a sip. It starts out with a big mouthful of whipped cream that tastes slightly strange, and then -

She swallows hard, forcing the hot liquid down her throat, and splutters as delicately as she can. The latte tastes like a combination of stew, curry, cinnamon, and dirt. But she can’t say as much to Twyla’s pretty, hopeful face, to the flicker of anxiety in her eyes - which, Alexis realizes suddenly, are speckled with gold that’s currently gleaming right at her.

With a careful cough, she says, “It’s just, um, a bit hot. But still _so_ yummy!”

“Really?! You’re not just saying that?” Twyla clasps her hands together, pressing them against her heart, and Alexis knows, unequivocally and instantaneously, that she is never, ever going to tell Twyla how totally disgusting the latte is.

“No!” Alexis chirps. “No. It is, um, a bit _different_ from the PSLs that I’m used to, but also such a totally special flavor, like, so yum!” She pauses briefly before she says, sincerely, “Thank you, Twy.” She reaches over the counter and gives Twyla’s nose a quick, soft boop.

While Alexis is struggling not to grimace at the lingering aftertaste of the latte, Twyla says, suddenly, “Pumpkin! I still have what’s left of the pumpkin. I was going to carve it. Into a jack-o-lantern, I mean. Maybe you could join me tonight? We could, you know, hang out and carve the pumpkin. Have a drink maybe?”

Alexis nods enthusiastically. That sounds like a very cute, very autumnal plan, weather be damned. “Um, yes!” she says. “Love that, Twy.”

Twyla confirms that she’ll do the actual carving of the pumpkin - Alexis and her fresh mani are much more suited to a supervisory role - and then Alexis clarifies, as casually as she can, “And, uh, when you said we would have a drink. Do you mean - ” She looks down at the latte nervously. “Or, like, a nice yummy glass of wine?”

“Oh, I could make you another PSL if you wanted,” Twyla says, because she is a sweet, generous angel. To Alexis’ immense relief, Twyla adds, “But I was thinking we could open a bottle of wine.”

It takes everything in Alexis to hold in her relieved sigh. “ _Yes_ , Twy,” she says firmly, fluttering her lashes beguilingly. “That sounds amazing. I can’t wait.”

“I can’t wait either,” Twyla says warmly. They hold each other’s gazes, both still smiling, for a beat, and then Twyla says, “Oh - do you want to sit?”

“I totally do,” Alexis says with an empathic nod. “Totally. I just have, like, a couple errands to run, so I’m going to take… ” She holds her cup up, “ _This_ baby, to go. Thanks again, Twy. I’ll come by around eight?”

“Okay!” Twyla agrees brightly.

Alexis gives the counter two quick taps and turns to go. On her way to the door, she looks back over her shoulder and purses her lips in the air, blowing Twyla a kiss. “Later, girl!” she calls.

Outside, Alexis turns left and walks a few feet, until she’s sure she’s no longer visible out of the café’s windows, and then finally allows herself to make a face, sticking out her tongue as if that might cleanse the taste of the latte from her palate. It’s almost worse than the first smoothie Twyla made her.

There’s a garbage can on the next block, so she continues on her path toward it. When she reaches it, however, she can’t quite bring herself to toss the latte inside. It’s so _yuck_ , but she knows how much care Twyla put into it, how much she wanted Alexis to like it.

An idea occurs to her - such a good one that she spins around, turning a full one-hundred-eighty degrees. To acknowledge what a kind thing Twyla’s done for her, even if the results are horrifying, she’ll go back to the General Store and buy the pretty thank-you card she saw, and she’ll write a cute little message inside - maybe one that rhymes, since that seems like something Twyla would like.

She nods to herself, pleased with her plan of attack for the rest of the day. She’ll stop by the store again, go home, give her dad his card, write a message in the card for Twyla, and then put on an appropriate outfit for her little datie with her new bestie. She’s thinking maybe a pair of her Paige jeans and a cozy knit sweater - it _has_ to get cooler by the evening, maybe even cool enough that it’ll be necessary to throw a blanket over their legs while they sip their wine. She hopes Twyla picks out a nice cabernet.

Without thinking, Alexis takes a sip of her latte, and screws up her face as soon as the liquid hits her taste buds. “This is _so gross_ ,” she murmurs to no one, but still, as she begins her trek back to the General Store, she can’t stop smiling.


End file.
